Things They'll Never Say
by kitkat411
Summary: Unsent letters, unread messages...Things they'll never say to each other. First is a letter from Phoenix to Miles.


Things They'll Never Say

By: KitKat411

Dear Miles,

I know you won't respond to this letter, just like you haven't responded to the last twenty-three letters I've sent you.

I do hope you get this letter, though. God knows I've tried to track you down this time, Miles. I've Googled "Miles Edgeworth" more times than I can count-not that I was ever very good at math- I've been checking up on your name at the Criminial Affairs Department…I even spoke with a few teachers about you. I think you'd be really proud of me this time, Miles. I'm finally "putting my mind to good use," just like you told me.

Funny, isn't it, Miles? The one time I follow your advice-no, I never "developed a taste for cravats"-and I'm using it to find you. You'd probably say something like, "That's irony, Wright, not humor," but I still think it's funny.

In case you do read this letter, however, I wanted to tell you that I'm doing really good. (No, not, "well," Miles. Good.) College is going really…Well, it's different, but I enjoy it. I don't like school in general-as you probably could tell-but especially not since fourth grade. School-and life in general, really- just feels so empty. I can't explain it correctly, but life just seems so blank, so barren, so empty.

I think that's why I broke my parents' hearts and became an art major. ("You'll never make a living, sweetheart.") At least in art, I knew what to do with that blank empty space. It's called a "canvas," or it's a slab of marble, or it's a page of watercolor paper. And it's simple, Miles. I fill the barren, empty space. I paint a scene from Dante's "Inferno," or I carve Michelangelo's "David," or a beautiful watercolor of lilies. My canvasses are mine to do with what I want-if that makes sense, Miles. Art is simple-if I want to fill the canvas with a haystack, then I paint a haystack. Done. And then the canvas isn't blank.

But life is more complicated than pretty haystacks, Miles-as I'm sure you already understand. I can't fill my life's "canvas" with pretty haystacks and have it be over and done with. Screw the haystacks, Miles. I can't fill my life's canvas with anything. The emptiness of my life stares at me, mocking me with a familiar, self-righteous, smirk.

This is why I keep writing to you, I think. This is why I Google your name more than I can ever know, why I check up on you at the police station, why I've even asked some of the teachers if they know where you are. (You're quite famous around with the legal people, Miles. You and what's-his-face, Manfred von Karma.)

I…I miss you, Miles. I miss the way your eyes would light up while talking about your father, I miss those huge books you used to read- Paradise Lost, Capitalism and Freedom, the Constitution- and how Larry would be struggling through Dr. Seuss. I miss you serious you were about life, how determined you were to grow up. (Remember what you said, Miles? "I cannot wait to have the inconvience of adolescence in the past of my life." You were such an egghead, even at nine.)

I miss the passion you had for life, the way your eyes would sparkle when you talked. The other kids in our class would snicker-like I mentioned, you WERE an egghead- but you wouldn't care. I miss your "I can do anything" attitude. I wish I could take your self-confidence, Miles. You inspired everyone around you.

Which is why, I think, I keep writing letters I know you'll never read. I need to know you're still the same, Miles. I want to keep believing in the self-assuredness you had as a nine-year-old. I need to know that you're out there, somewhere, reading these letters and thinking of me. You lit up my life, Miles. That year, that spring, that time we had, was the best time of my childhood. Meeting you was the greatest thing that could have ever happenend to me, I think. You stood up for me that day, then stood with me for the rest of my life. You made me believe in myself; your passion for life inspired me, too. Your joy for life lifted me from my sadness. (Yes, even at nine, Miles.) You showed me who I was, and I grew to love that Phoenix. I could never sleep when I was talking to you- dreams could never be as amazing as my reality.

So now here I am, clinging on to a dream. A dream that's now over ten years old, Miles. I'm clinging on to a nine-year-old's dream of a better life, a hopeful future. I keep writing to you to prove that it isn't over, that one day you might write back to me. That one day we can go back to our old, easy, familiarity. (Insomnia is a small price to pay for the happiness you bring me; don't worry.)

So please, Miles, please return this letter. Even if it's just a post card, a telegram, a one-word reply...I need to know that you exist sill, that it will all be okay, that I can still hold on to my dream.

If you don't reply, Miles, I might start to give up on you. And to do that would be to give up on life itself, because that is how much you mean to me.

Your friend forever,

Phoenix Wright


End file.
